2018 - Page 3 of 10 - Lokmarg

#Lynch Mob IV – ‘BJP Fanned Vigilantism’

By LokMarg Publishing 14th November 2018

gau rakshak. And I find it painful how this term has come to spawn terror in the minds of common people.

I am aware that many violent vigilantes have declared themselves messiahs of the gau vansh (bovine species) by merely flaunting a saffron scarf and they go about threatening people. They are just gangsters who think they can get away with murder in the name of cow protection. The truth is serving cows is considered equal to serving gods in our religious texts.

And there is no space for violence in this religious service. I have been doing gau seva for over two decades. Our sole aim is to tend sick and old cows. In the times when stray cattle are dying from ingesting polythene and hazardous waste, it is the duty of every human being and animal lover to help the situation.

The vigilante mobs are only harming the cause by getting every gaushala (cow pen) labelled as mobsters den. I had a religious bend of mind from an early age. I devoured many religious texts and it led to my association with Gita Press. In 1998, the trust which runs the press decided to set up Govind Gaushala in Gorakhpur. Always in love with this gentle, bovine animal, I dedicated my life to serving them at the shelter.

Volunteers at Govind Gaushala rescue ailing cows and bring them to the shelter for treatment. We have been quietly doing this work for over 20 years and no one bothered about us much. But then came 2014. The BJP government at the Centre fanned a militant form of Hinduism, where the bhagwadhari (saffron-clad) would lynch people in the name of gau raksha. The result: people who genuinely work for the cause are being looked down upon.

Years of dedication and servitude have been laid to zilch, thanks to certain anti-social elements. Things are still in control in Gorakhpur as these self-styled gau rakshaks haven’t been able to cause much trouble here. We are proud of our work. An ailing cow, on the side of the street, would have gone unnoticed earlier but now people have begun to take notice. More people are reporting sick cows and cases of cattle smuggling to us.

People here know about us and our work and promptly report any untoward incident or a sick cow. Our gaushala has over 450 cows, oxen and calves. Besides the Trust donation, we are getting help from the government of Uttar Pradesh too. My appeal to LokMarg readers is: We have spent all our lives in the service of cows.

Due to some miscreants, please do not label all gau rakshaks as villains. We believe that we serve God by taking care of a sick animal. Violence is not what we preach. And for the self-styled gau rakshaks: Come, join us and you would know what gau raksha is all about.

'You Know My Name, Not My Story'

By LokMarg 9th November 2018

I hail from a poor family which falls very low on the social rung. My father used to sell langots (loincloths) for male wrestlers, which my mother sews at our rented house at Gokulpur village in East Delhi. Thus, wrestling was something I grew up with. When I was very young, my father would take me along to watch my brothers wrestle.

I was hooked to the sport from day one. I started watching more bouts. Seeing my interest, at the age of nine, I started learning how to wrestle. Soon I started fighting in dangals started taking on boys with élan. I would pin each one of them to the ground. But the idea of a girl challenging boys at their own game did not go down well with many. My father was constantly criticised for his decision to make me wrestle.

Even my mother and grandparents asked him not to make me fight against boys. They were worried that if I injured myself, no one would marry me. But my father did not pay heed to their constant nagging. He supported me, defying the rest of the world. Maintaining a proper diet and training are vital for a wrestler. For a poor family like mine, it turned out to be a huge burden. In 2015, my mother sold her mangalsutra for my training.

My father had also taken loans from the local moneylenders. The debt piled on and reached Rs 10 lakh! My parents often skipped meals to make sure I could eat well. They were under a lot of stress, but they never let it affect me. However, at the back of my mind, I kept thinking how I could earn money and pay back my parents. Finally, I got a chance to play in a dangal in Punjab, where the prize money was Rs 10 lakh. This was a godsend for me.

I told myself: ‘No matter what, you have to win it. It is not just a dangal, it’s a matter of life and death’. I went out there, gave it my best shot and won! I was ecstatic as tears rolled down my cheeks. I sobbed uncontrollably. The money freed my father from his debts. I now had to buy a mangalsutra for my mother that she had sold for my training. God helps those, who help themselves, I managed to get into another competition — the Asian Championship.

The prize money was Rs 3 Lakh. Once again, I won. And the first thing I did with the money was to buy a mangalsutra for my mother, from the same shop she had sold it to. Even today when I close my eyes, I can feel the warmth of my mother’s arms around me after I got her mangalsutra back. I had assured her that I will do everything to keep her and my father proud and happy. She had hugged me and we had cried holding each other.

From that moment, there has been no looking back. I worked hard on my training. I won a gold medal in the Commonwealth Championship held in Johannesburg in December 2017. And in the same year at Asian Wrestling Championships in Kakran, won a silver medal in the Women’s freestyle 69 kg event. Recently, I won a bronze medal at the women’s freestyle 68 kg event at the 2018 Asian Games in Jakarta, beating Taipei’s Chen Wenling on account of technical superiority.

Yes, life has changed a little following my success, but problems still exist. Most of them stem from government’s apathy towards sports-persons belonging to poor families or coming from rural backgrounds. So before complaining about India’s rank in the medal tally at international gaming events, such as the Olympics, or Asian Games, do not forget the struggle Indian sportspersons have to go through. My story is just one example.

#SheToo – ‘Beauticians Aren’t Prostitutes’

By LokMarg 8th November 2018

Sudha, 42, runs a small beauty salon in a small town of Rajasthan. Even after 18 years in business, she tells LokMarg, the harassment by young men in the area hasn’t stopped. Nor the small town society’s view about a beautician.

Her story:

If I were in Mumbai, the Bollywood, I would be called a make-up artist. Here, in Jhalawar (Rajasthan), I have many names, from beauty parlour-wallhi to dhandewali and bigdi hui aurat (woman of easy virtue). Girls in my neighbourhood are discouraged to speak to me lest I should ‘corrupt’ them. But most men size me up on the sly and pass comments.

Some of them would wait for me to close the shop and follow me to my house. In 18^th year of business now, I have got used to all that. I grew up in a family where elders told me not to be heard, not to be seen. Even on religious occasions, womenfolk in the family visited the temple at 4 in the morning. Stepping out in full public glare was prohibited and speaking in a loud voice was discouraged.

ALSO IN #SheToo SERIES: Silent Victims Of Harassment

‘Saab Raped Me When Madam Was Out Of Town’

‘Clients Often Treat Spa Therapists As Prostitutes’

Putting Up With Nosy Parkers And Peeping Toms

‘People Consider A Young Widow Easy Meat’

‘My Employer Spiked My Drink And Raped Me’

‘Construction Worker Face Verbal Harassment’

When I got married, rather early by city standards, the curfew hours relaxed but women were still expected to follow the set rules of a conservative Thakur family. It was a personal tragedy that made me sit up and took charge. I was 24 when my husband met with a paralytic stroke. We had children to bring up and his medical expense were high.

A lesser woman would have chosen to live on family generousity but I decided not to live on handouts. At that time, there was no beauty salon in the area where I live and on marriages, women travelled long distances for a professional hairdo or makeup. Those who could afford summoned the ‘beautician’ home. I sensed a business opportunity.

I spent a good amount of money and time in getting trained as a beautician and set up my own beauty salon. It created a sensation, mostly negative though. There’s an adage in small towns: ‘Aurat hi aurat ki sabse badi dushman hoti hai (A woman is the biggest enemy of another woman)’. My mother-in-law and sisters-in-law gave me a mouthful at every possible occasion. Each day as I stepped out in the morning, they would say: ‘Gayi dhanda karen (There goes the prostitute).’

Besides, in a small town, even with a woman chief minister, people look down at women who opt to pay for looking good. A beautiful woman with makeup on, looking her best gorgeous self must be, as they say, ‘is looking for male attention and sex’. And a beautician is seen as facilitating women up on the immoral path. I have suffered taunts from older men that I am corrupting young girls.

And young men think that a beauty salon is the best hunting ground for loose-character women, a pick up point for prostitutes. There is little respect for a beautician in our small town society. My salon is the only woman-owned establishment in this market. Each morning, all eyes are on me as I open the shutters to my parlour. There are a few liquor shops across the road.

Young men often stand idly outside my shop and each time a client moves in or steps out, their usual snide remark is: Sharab uss taraf, shabab iss taraf (Wine there, women here). However, my husband has shown complete faith in me and his love has kept me going. But I often question myself why can’t we (beauticians) be accorded the same respect that is given to makeup artists in big towns? My worst times are when a sex racket or prostitution ring news breaks on TV channels where a beauty or massage parlour is involved.

I can hear murmurs that my parlour too is a front for immoral trafficking. Nobody bothers about checking the facts. I open my parlour at 11 am in broad daylight and close it by 7 pm. I don’t even feel angry anymore, just tremendously sad at how low these men can stoop so low in their thinking. At times, I along with my assistants get to work at a marriage home for bridal makeup. The money is good but your ordeal begins the moment you introduce to the family members. Often, an elderly member would ask about our caste. This feels so humiliating.

Then, usually, there are payment hassles or the hazards of finding transport to reach back home as it always gets late in such occasions. The only solace I find is in interacting with some educated women who come to my parlour. They speak of fresh ideas, the changing world and a well-behaved civil society. They have given me strength that I should raise my voice when the need be, but also learn to appreciate men when they are nice to us.

Currently, I wish to buy a ‘scooty’ for it will save me from a lot of hassles, and heartburn. It will save me from depending on others for being ferried around at odd hours and I can then just scoot out of any unwarranted situations at the slightest hint of danger! (Name and location of the narrator have been changed on request)

#SheToo – ‘A Young Widow Isn’t Easy Meat’

By LokMarg Publishing 1st November 2018

Widowed at 23, Radha (name changed) set up a tea shop and initially made just enough to make both ends meet. Now, she performs multiple tasks at the same time from selling wares, to taking care of her two young children, keeping books of her stock, and cooking at home. Her biggest worry however, is to fend off unwanted suitors who believe she is desperate for male company.

I lost my husband four years after my marriage. I was 23 then, with two very young children. I was completely at loss about how I would spend the rest of my life. There were very little savings, so I lived from day to day with help from friends and close relatives. Then I decided I cannot bring up my children on charity forever.

I was 24 when I, with some financial help from parent, set up a small tea shop using mostly my own houseware. That was four years ago. Today, I also sell cigarettes, gutkha pouches and packed snacks, all manly items.

While I am a much more confident person today, it wasn’t an easy going in the initial months. A shop teaches you a lot about how to use your resources, price your goods and haggle with suppliers. But nothing is more frustrating than keeping those Romeos at bay who think a single woman is desperate to pair with men.

ALSO IN #SheToo SERIES: Silent Victims Of Harassment

Verbal Abuse Of Construction Workers

Since my shop is near my house, most customers know my status. Even occasional ones figure out that I am single woman. This clearly sets their hormones raging. Many of these are married men just looking forward to having a good time or just trying to get verbal gratification.

Some of them begin with ‘polite’ sympathy, others use sly compliments, yet others keep staring. But the most difficult ones are those who share sob stories: about how they are in an unhappy marriage. Liars, all.

My shop is very small (about 10 sqft) which means I have to sit in close proximity to men all the time and sometimes it becomes discomforting when these men are constantly staring at you from such close quarters. At times, men try to act fresh and brush past you at the pretense of pushing a glass or fumbling at a gutkha pouch string.

Initially, I got very worked up at their behaviour. But now if someone ‘mistakenly’ touches me, my hot saucepan in which I prepare tea also ‘mistakenly’ touches them. However, I take care that they don’t get burnt; just a slight touch to make them realise what a woman feels about an unwanted touch.

There are men who overstay at the shop engaging in idle talks and showering false compliments. Sometimes I have to manage drunk clients who can’t decide which brand of gutkha or cigarette they want. But all that is routine for any shop owner.

There are nice men too who genuinely respect women. What I miss is socialising with women. All my customers are men who discuss politics, films or their hardships. I hardly get time to meet a woman and speak my heart to her. There is no one to turn for advice either; little time to visit relatives.

I often have an urge to unburden my feelings. I’m but human and I do feel lonely at times. All I can do perhaps is wait from my girl child to grow up and then maybe the two of us can share each other’s anxieties and experiences at length.

#SheToo – A Teen Housemaid's Nightmare

By LokMarg Publishing 30th October 2018

Four years on, she still gets nightmares: In 2014, I first stepped out of my native village to travel all the way to Kochi City. An acquaintance had found me work as a domestic help in the city; the money would help my household. I was awe-struck by the big city, the clean apartment, where I would be working, and my English-speaking employers. It took me a few days to adjust to the work.

I saw ‘Saab’ and ‘Madam’ weren’t in a happy marriage. They had violent arguments and would bang the door on each other. There was a part-time maid in the house who would handle duties like giving food or packing lunch for the doctor husband. The part-time maid left in a few months and I took over all the chores.

ALSO IN #SheToo SERIES: Silent Victims Of Harassment

Verbal Abuse Of Construction Workers

‘Clients Often Treat Spa Therapists As Prostitutes’

‘Low-Cost Spas Threat Therapists As Prostitutes’

Putting Up With Nosy Parkers And Peeping Toms

‘People Consider A Young Widow Easy Meat’

‘Beauty Salon Is Not A Pickup Point’

I sensed that Saab often brushed past me or felt me up whenever I laid the dinner table for him. I liked Madam more and we often talked in idle time. Yet, I could not gather the courage to share my doubts about Saab with her. Once the wife mentioned to me that her husband took drugs and this was one of the reasons of their rocky marriage.

She wouldn’t have thought of her husband stooping to the level of harassing a maid. I kept quiet as I didn’t want to add to her woes. One evening, Madam announced that she would be leaving for a 10-day workshop to Andhra Pradesh. On an impulse, probably, she said she wouldn’t want to leave me at the house and take me along with her.

The husband insisted that the maid was needed at home to take care of cleaning and cooking. Once again, they had heated arguments and ultimately the wife relented to leave me home. On the very day madam left, Saab called me in his room and said that he had a backache. He took out an ointment tube and asked me to rub all over his lower back. While I was rubbing his back, he suddenly turned over, forcibly took my hand and placed it on his genitals.

I was stunned and tried to run away from the room in disgust. But he had expected this reaction and pulled me down on the bed violently and forced himself on me. I cried in pain the whole night and kept making plans to run away from the house. But I didn’t know the surrounding area; I had hardly stepped out of their house since my arrival there. Over the next ten days, I was raped several times even as I cried and pleaded him to leave me alone. When the wife came back from her training, she found me in a state of shock. I had not eaten or slept properly for the past ten days.

She hugged me, held my head in her arms and asked what had happened. I broke down and started howling for the next several minutes. “Please save me, Didi,” I kept repeating. Later, I narrated the whole incident to her. As I felt safe in her company, I thought about my parents. The humiliation our family would experience when they came to know of my situation.

What will happen to the monthly income the couple was sending them home? Will my acquaintance also come to know about it now? Madam looked shocked and heartbroken. She still couldn’t come to terms that her husband was a child rapist. She told me she would register a complaint with the police and took me to the station. I underwent a medical examination which confirmed rape. However, in the meantime, her in-laws and other relatives reached the police station. I don’t know what happened exactly, but no police action happened afterwards.

Madam told me that she had given up under duress but would file for a divorce. She also assured me of all medical, financial and emotional support needed to come out of the trauma. At that time, I felt she was talking sense. My mind was occupied with thoughts about my family, my village and the rape stigma. The doctor wife arranged my journey back home. She told my family that she held herself guilty but we had to move on.

I gathered that her divorce case stretched on till August 2018 as there was no mention of the husband being a child rapist among the grounds for separation. With help from several quarters, I am now employed as a housemaid in a Gulf country and the earning is good. Yet, there are nights when I wake in cold sweats and stay awake thereafter.

#SheToo – ‘A Spa Therapist Isn’t A Prostitute’

By LokMarg Publishing 28th October 2018

Meenu (name changed), a 32-year-old massage therapist, has seen both the best and the worst in spa business in the last six years. Here is an insider’s account of her experience at a low-cost spa where clients came merely to seek sexual favours from the therapists and the business owners chose to look the other way.

Seven years back, when I moved to Delhi from Manipur, I was happy to be selected for training as a therapist by an international wellness chain. The group had branches in south Delhi, west Delhi, and NCR. I was posted in their Noida unit and was happy with the HR policies of the spa management.

Although we had an eight-hour shift, we were allowed to decline more than five hours of therapy sessions. If the number of sessions exceeded five hours, we would get incentives.

Yes, there would be odd clients who asked for various favours, like ‘happy ending’ (a term used for masturbation performed at the end of a massage therapy), but we had management support in walking out on such clients. Yet, most of the therapists obliged ‘decent’ clients for a ‘generous tip’.

Things changed when I switched job to another local spa for want of better pay. This is when I realized the dark practices in those low-cost massage parlours that were mushrooming all over the city and offered services at half the cost, sometimes even lower, than the more organized establishments.

ALSO IN #SheToo SERIES: ‘Saab Raped Me When Madam Was Out Of Town’

‘My Employer Spiked My Drink And Raped Me’

The high cost for a therapy session in my previous group discouraged or filtered the ill-intentioned clients. But in the new unit, I would meet patrons who made lewd passes, enjoyed talking dirty, flashed their genitals (often refused to wear the disposable underwear) and offered money for fellatio and ‘home-services’.

At times, some of them will take advantage of Valentine’s Day offers, come with a female partner and used the premises as ‘love nest’. When I complained about a certain regular client about his unruly behavior to the manager, the response was shocking. The manager asked me insensitively if he had raped me. ‘Keep quiet and don’t ruin the business. The competition is tough,’ he said.

I soon learnt that most of my fellow therapists had little training about a human body or muscle relaxation. They were there only to give the ‘services in demand’. I also learned their operational terminology: ‘B2B’ meant body-to-body massage, which meant lying over a client with minimal clothing; Topless meant the client will touch or fondle your naked breasts and; ‘Full Service’ meant sleeping with the client.

Massage was never the call a client came for. As soon as the door was locked (in my previous spa centre, the door was closed but never locked) the deal would begin between the ‘therapists’ and the patron. It was nothing short of organized prostitution.

The clients looked at you as if they were examining a commodity before purchase. I felt cheap. I took leave and started negotiating with my previous employer for a return. They asked me to wait as they were facing low clientele due to tough completion.

Then one day, my former manager called up to tell me that two of their therapists had left and there was a vacancy. My first reaction was to call those who had left the job and ask them if they were joining some low-cost ‘massage parlour’; I wanted to tell them the risks involved. But, I let it be. We all learn about the perils of easy money our own hard way.

(The names of the therapist and her employers have been withheld at her request)

#She Too – ‘My Employer Spiked My Drink’

By LokMarg Publishing 28th October 2018

dhobi by profession. The family income was just enough to support my younger brothers’ education and my beautician course. As I was growing up, I was aware of the male gaze that would pierce through my clothes, making me squirm. My mother told me to dismiss the attention and live with it. I had my family, my father – my life support. Then one day, he came back home coughing uncontrollably. He had been unwell for a very long time. Doctors diagnosed him with tuberculosis. Within the next few months, his body became very frail and he passed away. My support system was gone.

ALSO IN #SheToo SERIES: Silent Victims Of Harassment

Verbal Abuse Of Construction Workers

‘Saab Raped Me When Madam Was Out Of Town’

‘Low-Cost Spas Threat Therapists As Prostitutes’

Putting Up With Nosy Parkers And Peeping Toms

People Consider A Young Widow Easy Meat

‘Beauty Salon Is Not A Pickup Point’

To run the household, my unlettered mother started working as a domestic help. My beautician’s course had almost come to an end, so I started looking for a job to assist my mother. What I didn’t realise then was that my father’s death had made us vulnerable to the vultures waiting to prey on our desperate condition. A distant relative approached my mother and offered to get me a job with a friend who was looking for a saleswoman. ‘Your daughter is good-looking. She will get a job easily,’ he said. This man turned out to be a pimp. He referred me to his friend, who ran a travel agency, and part of his business was to sell holiday packages. I was trained for barely a week after which he said I had mastered the art of persuasion. My employer then asked me to accompany him to what he called ‘client meetings’. I trusted him and eager to help his business prospects, went with him during office hours. After a few months, he called me late in the evening one day to accompany him to a ‘big client’. This was the first time I ventured out this late with him. But since I had been working with him for a while, my mother too did not find anything odd in the timing of the meeting. He took me to a shady hotel. I followed him into a room reeking of alcohol and smoke. Two men were sitting inside drinking and laughing. A sudden silence ensued as I entered the room. I sensed they were scanning me from head to toe. Something was not right. I sat on the edge of a chair, looking for an opportune moment to take leave of the room. They offered me a drink. I refused. The men then insisted I took a soft drink instead. More to ease my dry throat, like a fool, I gulped it down. Then it got dark, a blackout. When I woke up, I was alone in the room. There were bruises all over my body and my clothes were strewn across the room. I felt a sharp pain in my private parts. What happened that night became clear to me. Those three men had taken turns to rape me, violate my body and crush my soul. It was still dark outside, maybe three or four in the morning. I rushed home; my mother was waiting for me, worried sick. When I narrated the incident to my mother, she went numb. This vegetative state continued for a couple of days and then we decided to contact the relative but all in vain. Meanwhile, my ‘boss’ kept calling me incessantly, but I kept rejecting his calls. A few days later, we gathered the courage to approach the police. As we reached the police station, the word about our decision to file an FIR reached my employer. Several of my relatives suddenly reached the station and asked us to review our decision. One of them made an offer: accept ₹50,000 and keep our mouths shut and honour intact, he said. Meanwhile, my erstwhile employer used all kinds of pressure tactics from threats to my life to kidnapping my brothers. My mother, an illiterate woman who was intimidated by foul-mouth policemen, gave in. She was still coping with the passing away of my father, so I was not surprised that she buckled under the pressure. My mother and I cried ourselves to sleep every single night thereafter for a week. For the next few months, I could not muster the courage to go out of my house. My sudden ‘house arrest’ made my neighbours suspicious. They started questioning my mother. So, I finally decided to venture out and look for a fresh job. For the past couple of years, I have been working with a beauty parlour as a sales executive. But my past still haunts me and the scars left on my soul will never fade away for the rest of my life. I find myself unable to deal with menfolk and avoid taking up home assignments. Meanwhile, life goes on.

#SheToo – Silent Victims of Harassment

By LokMarg Publishing 27th October 2018

She herself was accosted by a widowed employer who offered money for her ‘cooperation’. She was repulsed, yet could never gather courage to leave the city. Benu opens up: Life of a housemaid holds valuable lessons in survival. You know there are men, there are ‘friendly’ men and there are beasts posing as men. I once cooked for an elderly couple in a gated community in Mayur Vihar (East Delhi) when the lady of the house succumbed to Cancer.

Within two months of her death, I saw a changed man in the ‘Uncle’ (that’s what I called him). He would chat me up, open the door but will not leave the passage, used the water-dispenser when I was washing dishes and nudged me at every pretence … the signs were perceptible. I gave him the benefit of the doubt till one day he simply blocked my way and forcibly held my hand. “I need someone to take care of me,” he began. “I will pay money. If I find you good, I can even marry you.” I felt repulsed by this slobbering old dog. But let me start from my arrival in Delhi the megacity.

I belong to (North) 24 Pargana zilla in (West) Bengal and came to Delhi in search for money after my husband, a farm labourer, died of TB in 2009. A Christian group had helped some of the village women in training as housemaids and finding work for them. These women sent good money home and I was also tempted when one of them wanted a long leave and asked me to replace him for a month.

ALSO IN #SheToo SERIES: Verbal Abuse Of Construction Workers

‘Saab Raped Me When Madam Was Out Of Town’

‘Clients Often Treat Spa Therapists As Prostitutes’

Putting Up With Nosy Parkers And Peeping Toms

‘People Consider A Young Widow Easy Meat‘

‘My Employer Spiked My Drink And Raped Me’

‘Beauty Salon Is Not A Pickup Point’

Delhi is a cham-chamata shahar (glittering mega city) where even nights are illuminated. I was awestruck. I used to take part in community ceremony for food preparation in my village and was considered a good cook. This was the reason my co-villager offered me the temporary job. Before handing me over the charge, she gave me a sagely advice, “Now that you are here, Benu, you will never be able to leave this city.

But remember: avoid two types of men when you seek work – single men and old men.” How prophetic she turned out to be years later, I wonder! After the first month of work as a substitute, I was able to save Rs500 and send back home to my son (20), who did odd jobs in and around the village. I wanted him to fix our roof with the money, but lured by the earnings, he used the money to reach me here, saying that he too wanted to work in Delhi.

Such was the lure of Rs 500 back in our village. I rented a room in Chilla village of east Delhi. This rural-urban settlement supplies housemaids and cheap labour to rich (actually, a middle-class) housing colonies nearby. Two households hired me for cooking and dish-washing. The first family belonged to a working young couple, who were always in rush while the other was a retired couple whose children had settled abroad.

It all looked good till I found the dark underbelly of city life. The idle sons of Gujjar landlords at Chilla village targeted good-looking (read fair-complexioned) women in the tenant community. They would often get the man of the house drunk and then had their way. It was common knowledge that if these lads set eyes on a woman, it would be impossible to live in the vicinity and stay unharmed.

The sexual exploitation did not end there. All maids are bound to make an identity card, duly signed by local police, to be submitted to the gated community they work for. This meant lewd looks and remarks while applying for the ‘card’ which often turned into brutal physical violations, first from the police and later routinely from the society guards. Then there were other male employees in the society up for grabs.

One of my friends, a new recruit who did not know how to operate a lift, was accosted and molested by the society gardener in the lift, leaving her shocked and teary-eyed. I was thankful to be a woman of short height and dark complexion. But the contentment was short-lived. The woman in the retired household was diagnosed with cancer and hospitalised. I was 40 when I lost my husband, so I could empathise with the old man who would soon be widowed.

Cancer ‘matlab maut’ (means death), and it happened. I pitied the lonely life of Uncle. However, in less than two months, as visitors inflow died, I saw a changed man in the ‘Uncle’. He would chat me up, open the door but will not leave the passage, used the water-dispenser when I was washing dishes and nudged me at every pretence … the signs were perceptible.

Then, one day he simply blocked my way and forcibly held my hand. “I need someone to take care of me,” he began. “I will pay money. If I find you good, I can even marry you.” I wanted to run. Then, I thought the money I would lose if I quit. The dilemma ended as the old man moved another step. On an impulse, I just shook his hand and ran away.

That night in bed at home, a rainbow of thought did not let me sleep. Could this happen to a woman in her late forties? What if I return to work? Was he serious when he offered to marry a woman 20 years younger? And then I remembered the advice of my old friend. Trust not a single man and an old man. This man was both. I approached that friend again. She had the remedy. “Go to Nancy didi,” she told me and I did. Nancy didi, a young widower living in the same housing society, heard me out and gave me several options: take him to police or report the matter to society office, with her backing.

I am illiterate but having lived in Delhi for nearly a decade I know that these actions will force me out of livelihood. I was worried what will I tell my son about it. I asked Didi to merely safeguard me from that lecher in future, as I would come to work there every day. Didi took my phone and said she had put her number on speed dial, whatever that meant, and asked me ring her if the old man ever stalked me again.

“Or just rush to my house,” she said. Thankfully, I never required to do either in the last two years but I am thankful to Nancy Didi for instilling this confidence in me. But I often think if a 65-year old can give me such sleepless nights, think of the trauma that goes into the mind of housewives raped routinely by randy boys in our colony or women troubled daily by society employees and lustful house owners. (The identity of certain persons and locations were changed on request. The original conversation in Hindi was transcribed by LokMarg desk)

#SheToo – ‘Construction Workers Harassed Verbally'

By LokMarg Publishing 26th October 2018

My husband, 32, moved to Delhi for better wages, but I work in Deoghar, which is near our native place. Although it is easy to find work – you only need to reach early at the town square and wait to be selected by contractors – the eight-hour work schedule can be back breaking. But we need the extra income if we want our two children to get good education.

There are separate wages for a ‘mistri’ (skilled) and ‘beldar’ (unskilled) labour. Women, always unskilled, are paid lesser than men, but we have no grouse there. This is a conventional division. Santhal (read tribal) women get picked first as they are stronger. Women who accompany their husbands are picked next. Single women are the last to be hired, sometimes at a price lower than the ruling daily wage.

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Our ordeal begins after that. The contractors and their sidekicks keep mouthing insults at women workers for slowing down the pace of work. Their choicest abuse is: ‘Tera mahina chal raha hai kya’ (Are you having your period)? This is followed by chuckles and snide remarks from all around. At times, you feel like throwing the mortar at their faces, but then you will get blacklisted and never get work.

Three years ago when my second child was very small, I would bring him to the site and breastfeed him during work. Many an eye would follow me while I took him for feeding. Each time the child cried, it will draw remarks, either lewd or insulting. Rarely would someone intervene and scold the lechers. I have myself never encountered a sexual proposition but yes, these are common at our kind of work.

Tribal women, for instance, are considered easy game by these wolves. It also depends on the contractor. Many of them have a reputation. Usually at the end of the workday when wages are distributed, they target their victims who are coerced by them. Everyone knows it but nobody speaks about it. The golden rule is to keep to yourself, ignore catcalls and physical overtures like squeezing your hand.

I also never tell people that my husband is away in Delhi. The toughest days at work are when I have my period. We do not have access to expensive sanitary napkins; we wash and reuse old clothes. But the eight-hour work plus nearly two hours of travel time can be very stressful. Even when you get some time to change or clean, there are no places where one can do it.

Almost always, we have no access to a washroom. Because of heavy construction activity, there is no empty space to relieve ourselves. There are so many people, vehicles and raw materials lying around which can make changing our soiled clothes, let alone relieving ourselves, a nightmare. The situation is worse when you are working near marketplaces or at a renovation project.

Public washrooms are meant only for men; women have to find corners and squat sometimes in full public view. The men ogle while women passersby turn up their noses at us in disgust. Nobody asks us how we feel. I suppose farm labourers have a better life. Even though they get three-fourths of our wages, they get food twice.

The wives of farm owners are very considerate and give them access to their washrooms on tough days. But farm work is difficult to get and is seasonal. Besides, the farms are shrinking by the day; even big farmers say the yield is no longer worth the labour. It is my children and husband, who calls up daily, who keep me going.

My husband trusts me, he has no issues that I work with other men. He is a kind soul, unlike many of the drunken husbands in the village who beat their wives. He has promised to shift us soon to Delhi, where my children can get English education. I have met some NGO women who come to visit our village and teach us about menstrual hygiene and personal healthcare. I want my daughter to also take up such a role when she grows up and fight for the rights of female construction workers.

Diminishing Returns III – ‘Creaking Wheel'

By LokMarg Publishing 14th October 2018

diyas (lamps), toys, decorative items, idols of gods etc, I was taught to make everything. Our family had been creating them for several generations. The potter’s wheel is our God — our source of livelihood. But in the past 10 to 15 years, things have drastically changed. I am regretting my decision to carry on with the family business. Cheap, imported goods from China have flooded the markets – decorative items, toys, diyas, religious idols everything that I used to create with great labour and patience – China makes it all, and in hordes. Works of indigenous artisans like me are neither appreciated nor encouraged. The cost of molding clay has been skyrocketing. Last year it used to cost Rs 1,500 per trolley but this year it has risen to Rs 2,500 apiece. There was a time when we looked forward to the festive season, and laboured to create an inventory. But in the past few years, we have hardly been able to sell our products, often returning home almost empty handed. Navratri has already begun. It will be followed by Dussehra and Diwali, but I am still over-stocked and have no hope of any kind of bumper sale. I have four children – two boys and two girls. I am happy that all of them are going to school. But I am afraid, how long I will be able to sustain this. I often run out of money for paying their school fees. After several reminders (and even threats of throwing them out of the school), I manage to deposit their fee on a quarterly basis and that too with a fine. To make ends meet, I along with other community members, work as daily wagers during the lean periods of the year. Despite my dire financial situation, I am proud of my art. My children too love to help me out and hone their own skills. Along with their mother, the children pat the clay, clean the wheel, and mould pots, etc. It is a matter of pride for them. They want to carry forward the family’s tradition and pass on the skill to their children eventually. But I am happy they are going to school, a strong educational background will give them an edge.

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